


A Complete History of Barrie, Ont., Canada (not to be confused with Barrie, Ont., Canada)

by ionthesparrow



Category: Barrie RPF, Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 00:18:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6681874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The continuing adventures of you in Barrie. You are starting in the middle. You are always starting in the middle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Complete History of Barrie, Ont., Canada (not to be confused with Barrie, Ont., Canada)

**Author's Note:**

> noodling :)

* * *

 

**Introduction**

Listen. LISTEN. I'm going to be as clear as possible, but there may be some confusion given that Barrie, Ont., Canada is distinct from Barrie, Ont., Canada. Although, as you have no doubt observed, the two are identical. 

Listen. LISTEN. I'm going to be as clear as possible, but there may be some confusion given that Barrie, Ont., Canada is identical to Barrie, Ont., Canada. Although, as you have no doubt observed, the two are utterly distinct. 

* * *

 

**An List of Definitions of Barrie (Incomplete) and Their Distinctions**

_Barrie, Ont., Canada_. Landmark Barrie. A city in central Ontario , founded in 1837. Currently with a population of roughly 136, 063. 44 **°** 24’48’’N, 79 **°** 40’48’’W. Named for Sir Robert Barrie, a British officer of the Royal Navy, who, among other things, gained distinction for his service in the War of 1812 (see also: Barrie Point, Barrie Reach, Barriefield). 

_Barrie Island_ , a spot of land in Lake Huron, home to a hardy 35 souls. 

_Barre, Vermont._ Incorporated in 1895. Named for Isaac Barré, a man with a reputation as a fearsome orator, make of that what you will. 

_Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania_. Also half-named in Isaac’s honor. 

_Berry_ – fruit (more on that later). Yogurt  & cereal topping. The ovary of a single, unwed flower (think of that the next time you pop one in your mouth) 

_Beary_ – neologistic construction, made using the convention of affixing a –y to a noun to make an adjectival form. Like or having the form of bears. 

_Barry_ – the guy who works the nightshift at the 7-11 around the corner from your house. 

_Bury_ – My love, bury your burdens deep, / Shame not in the tears you weep, / But deep in the earth, let silence keep, / And look not whence on what your reap. 

_Barrie, J.M_. – Scottish novelist; most famed for the creation of Peter Pan 

_Barrie Ltd_. – a maker of cashmere knitwear 

_Barrie Colts_ – a junior hockey team (further definitions to follow) 

_Barrie, Ont., Canada_. A fictional, transparent overlay. 

* * *

 

**Apples and Oranges**

When making comparisons, they are held up as the epitome of difference. 

_Apples._

_Oranges._

But, consider: 

You are in a hospital room. You are in a hospital room, watching your Love die. The ache is a constant thing, is a weight, is like drowning while standing upright in the air. You hear sounds that are frightening, because you do not understand what they mean. People speak to you with words you do not understand, and so you watch their faces, hoping for some clue of hope. 

You hold your Love’s hand. You love their hand because it is nearest to you, because you can touch it, and hold it, and because it is warm with the blood that still pumps and sears through the veins. 

The skin of the hand is delicate and papery. The hand is a temple to be guarded. You sit in this room, surrounded by flowers, by a cheery bowl of fruit on the table, by cards that make you cry because they are filled with love – because your Loved One is _loved_. And because they are filled with the words of dozens trying to figure out how to say goodbye. 

Every single second, you are trying to figure out how to say goodbye, and – because this is – despite what you might think – not a full time occupation – in the silence, your mind wanders. You read. You surf the internet. You take Buzzfeed quizzes. You play endless rounds of Sudoku on your phone. 

And you feel guilty, because you’re taking Buzzfeed quizzes, while your Loved One is dying. Because the seconds that roll past are forever and always gone. 

When your mind comes back to you, you reach out and once again touch their hand. Their hand lies still, but something else is wrapped around your throat. You love, and you knew that one day that would mean you would ache. This is a devil’s bargain you signed up for, you walked into, you – a smart person, your eyes open. 

But you love. You loved while you were laughing; you will love while you are crying. 

You hold their hand. You breathe and listen to them breathe, conscious that soon, it will be just you in the room. 

 

Now, what was in the bowl of fruit on the table? 

Now, consider this: 

Consider apples and oranges, and what they have in common: Fruit. Edible. Palm-size. Carbon-based. Sustenance. 

Now, consider this: 

Consider apples and oranges, and what they have in common: English words. Plural nouns. 

Now, consider this: 

Consider apples and oranges, and what they have in common: Collections of pixels the same color and the same height on your screen. They move in unison when you scroll. 

See – it’s not a comparison of apples to oranges. It’s a comparison of apples to apples, and oranges to oranges. And it’s clear they are different, even as they appear entirely identical. 

But of course, as you’ve discovered, it hardly matters. 

* * *

 

**The Answer**

One hundred eleven. 

* * *

 

**True Facts About Fictional Places**

Valhalla is the home of half the valiant. 

Shikasta we were from, and to Shikasta we return. 

Barrie is. 

Home exists. 

* * *

 

**Fictional Facts about True Places**

Highway 400 is the main drag through town, but Dunlop Street will get you just about anywhere you need to go in Barrie, barring, of course, that you need to get there quick. 

On March 20 th, 1975, a pickup truck carrying fallen branches and uprooted pieces of greenery and other storm debris was headed west on Dunlop. There’d been good wind – hence the glut of smashed trees. So much so, that collection by the city was delayed. The pickup was on it’s way to the dump, it turned right onto Ferndale Dr., and the load, loose, shifted, and one stump fell. 

The stump tumbled, turned, and settled upright between the yellow lines of the road. Its position spared it from disruption by traffic. The glut of storm debris meant the pickup truck was needed elsewhere, and it did not stop. 

Left in peace, the stump sprouted. Fed with salted water and grit, it pierced the asphalt one small, wedging assault at a time. It clung, and from the center of its rings, it produced new life. It grew, this tree self-planted in the middle of Dunlop street. It is a scene so familiar now, that it is not seen. In the late summer, it produces bitter nuts. It has not named itself. 

It bothers no one, really, except maybe Dave, who drives the snow plow in winter, and whose rounds are complicated its interruption to his pavement. 

 

Every spring, the residents of Barrie celebrate the Festival of Doors. The date of the event is not set, but happens on a day in which the weather has solidly turned away from freezing and towards warm. On a day when the sun pushes out early with the promise of staying. When flowers poking up provoke shy smiles, and not despair for their premature choices. 

On the morning of the Festival of Doors, the residents of Barrie wake up knowing that it is the Festival of Doors. There is a deep and satisfying calmness that starts in the pit of their stomach and rises upward and outward. The place behind their eyes aches. Their fingers itch and roll the ghosts of long-forsaken cigarettes. 

Once risen, the population dusts off their toolkits, their winter-stored handyman gear, their scattered tools. Some, the organized, are quick. Some (Alice, I see you) never learn, and are left each spring wandering the house searching for where the screwdriver was left. 

With these tools, they remove the front doors of their homes and apartments. They un-screw screws, they unbolt bolts, they kick and knock loose kick plates and knockers. 

The front doors of Barrie are carried to the Spirit Catcher. Traditionally on foot, with members of the household sharing the load, but urban sprawl means many have far to go, and so have taken to driving as far as the Barrie Fiesta Foods parking lot and walking from there. Some people sell parking spaces even closer in, but some people like the walk. 

The doors are placed around the Spirit Catcher, and one by one, when moved to do so, each resident of Barrie goes forward and selects a door, takes it home and installs it. And so, with this redistribution, walks into their new life. 

Who was once a teacher opens their front door to find themselves a chef. The police officer becomes a real estate agent. The driver of a snow plow is now a doctor, listening to the snap shut of valves and the propulsion of blood, even with the salt and grit still clinging to his boots, even with the smell of the lake in the air. 

* * *

 

**Pons asinorum**

The most famous muscle: 

The four-chambered heart contracts in deliberate asynchrony. Sad, exhausted venous blood pours in, is shuttled by the relatively thin-walled right atrium through the relatively placid tricuspid to the right ventricle. Once tucked away, the valve taps gently shut. 

This blood is expelled to the lungs, retrieved by the left atrium, and now, pleasantly, swimmingly, full of oxygen, is funneled into the left ventricle. From here, your heart squeezes tight in your chest and forces life into the entire rest of your body, slamming the door of the heart closed behind it. Your heart sends it spurting forth, with enough force to make a cut to your furthest toe spill rich and vivid and red. Carries your every hope, your every wish, your regrets your secrets, constant, all of it, on an ever-changing sea. 

Capable of doing this, because the muscle keeps in practice. Is worked every moment of your life without pause that you might do this. Ceaseless as any dreamer. 

 

The least famous muscle: 

Dave who drives the plow through the streets of Barrie in the winter months, dreams of a winter spent in warmer climes. 

He dreams of Florida. He dreams of sitting poolside and blue and white striped towels. He dreams buckets of cold beer being brought out to him, set in chips of ice and with condensate rolling down the side, served with sliced limes on a paper plate. He dreams of a sun hot and high and an ocean like bathwater. He dreams salt on the breeze and turquoise and vivid coral and pink and a sunset like an aspiring poet dreams a sunset to be. 

He dreams while wearing gloves, and a hat with earflaps pulled down low. He dreams with a sharp, piercing cold at the back of his neck, sitting in a vehicle that will not get warm for all his coaxing. He dreams while making and tightening fists to encourage blood flow, having long given up on his feet. He dreams while holding a thermos of hot coffee, bitter and thin – rough on the roof of his mouth, worse on his stomach. 

He dreams of what he will never have. Winter is the busy season. He needs to be here, to survive the rest of the year. Florida has waited decades, and it will have to wait longer. 

The bridge from you to Dave is not so very far. But, like any muscle, you must practice to keep in shape. It is not automatic. It must be learned, it can be taught. And it must be exercised, lest your own heart stop beating. 

* * *

 

**What is the onion known for?**

What are you crying over, if you cry in response to fiction? 

* * *

 

**A List of Definitions of Barrie Colt, and Their Distinctions**

_Barrie Colt_ – a young male horse, of or from Barrie, Ont., Canada or assorted others. 

_Barrie Colts_ – a junior hockey team. Member of the Ontario Hockey League. A team who closed the 2015-2016 season at 43-22-3. Who can claim among their alumni, Kyle Clifford, Dan Girardi, Sheldon Keefe, Aaron Ekblad and Ryan Strome. (And who must claim Mike Danton. We all have ghosts.) 

_Barrie Colt_ – an amorphous mass of cells that forms a thing that one day splits and refines enough to play hockey. 

In the history of the world, a Barrie Colt has scored 127 points in a single season. Has earned gold in the World Junior Championship. Has eaten eggs for breakfast. Has jammed a zipper. Has broken a lace. Has leaned and pressed his back against a doorway, looking for his spine to pop. In the history of the world, a Barrie Colt has looked out over the ice and thought, “Oh god, not this. Anything but this. Not today.” Has gone to an algebra class. Has failed an algebra class. Has learned to drive stick. Has messed up a scantron. Has gotten a cold. Has acquired a venereal disease. Has been on TV. Has been traded. Has sighed, and been caught sighing. Has cried, and been caught crying. Has lost a tooth and two toenails, all in the same day. Has given someone flowers. Has learned to dance. Has failed to learn to dance. Has punched someone. Has tried to punch someone and missed and punched someone unintended. Has missed the food from home, his bed, his life. Has fallen in love with another Barrie Colt, and thought, “Oh god, not this. Anything but this. Not today.” 

* * *

 

**The Question**

In a fourth grade classroom in Barrie, a teacher is describing Roman numerals, and how this system of symbols was used to represent numbers. He asked, testing his classes attention, “How many does this represent?” And drew on the board: 

I I I 

His class, attentive, answered, “Three.” 

He asked, “What other number could it represent?” 

They stumbled. They answered, “Three. It means three.” 

He asked, “What else?” 

* * *

 

**What else is an onion known for?**

“““When is a door not a door? When it’s ajar.” – Stephen King.” – Wayne Gretzky.” – Michael Scott. 

* * *

 

**A Magic Trick**

Listen. LISTEN. No – not to me. _Listen_. Are you at home? Do you hear the AC? The ceiling fan? The dishwasher? The drip of a faucet? 

Are you on the bus? Do you hear its engine, its squealing brakes? Do you hear the sounds of people shifting, talking? 

Are you at the library? Do you hear the shuffle of papers? The crumple of wrappers? All those noises enhanced for how hard everyone is trying not to make them? 

Do you have earbuds or headphones on? Do you hear music? 

Now, plug your ears. Take your earbuds out or your headphones off if you are wearing them. Plug your ears with your fingers, tight as you can, and listen. Do you hear that whine, that roar? What you hear is the roar of your blood, the snap-shut thud of your heart’s valves. 

These sounds exist, in the world, all the time. Real, even though you do not perceive them. 

Now, close your eyes. Press your fingertips to your eyes. Rub them as if you are tired. Do you see colors? Do you see red or orange or pink or green and yellow? These colors exist because the same receptors that react to the particle/wave of light hitting your eyes can also be activated by deformation caused by pressure. 

You perceive these colors, even though nothing red or orange or pink or green and yellow exists in the real world to be seen at this moment. The colors are perceived, even though they are not real. 

* * *

 

**Conclusion**

The quiet sounds of the universe are frightening, but they are offered with love. 

 


End file.
